Blurred Lines
by thegaygumballmachine
Summary: FP convinces Alice to skip class, with unexpected results.


"Come on, Alice. Just this once."

He's grinning at her with that goofy, ridiculous smile of his, and he takes her hand, letting the sea of people start to flow around them as they come to a stand-still. It's nice not to be part of the human traffic, and she glances around quickly, as if to make sure no-one is watching them.

"We can't," she hisses, and his smile grows, using his grip to pull her down the hall in the opposite direction of where they're meant to be going. She clutches to her pale pink backpack by one strap, newly-blonde hair flowing behind her as her stride becomes a run. Although she'll never admit it, she's smiling too, just slightly, because, even if she never wears it and gets her clothes from the same stores the other girls do, a Southside Serpent jacket sits on a hanger in her closet. Next to all the pink and white, there is leather, unused and protected as fiercely as a new car.

She only wears it around him, just because she knows he won't judge her for it.

Alice's blood sings with danger, with the rush she gets whenever he can manage to convince her to do something that isn't quite right. Taking a drag off his cigarette, riding home on his motorcycle…

Skipping class…

It's not like Mr. Reid will even notice. She never speaks in class, never participates, and he never tries to make her. It doesn't matter to either of them if she's actually sitting at the desk or not.

Alice is, of course, a straight A student. Her mother would allow nothing less. But in this particular circumstance, all that matters are the tests, and she aces those without need for studying every time.

This is what she tells herself as the discussion in the halls fades away, finding them near the empty music room. It takes work to convince herself that this is okay, that she can trust FP, but not as much as it probably should… they know each other perhaps too well. He has worked his way into her thoughts more often lately, and she finds herself remembering summers with him, when she'd sneak out of the house to meet him at Pop's or he'd throw pebbles at her window to the backdrop of a sunset.

There is a certain… romanticism… to her memories, one she doesn't take much notice of, but she does know that when she thinks of pulling up her window to speak to him in the fading light it brings a blush to her cheeks. The same grin would appear on his face when she did that as was there now, and Alice realizes there have been times she's done things just to see it.

She remembers resting her arms on the windowsill and calling him an idiot, her words complimented by his rough peel of laughter, and bites her lip on a smile.

There hasn't been a music teacher at Riverdale HS for years now, and Alice personally doesn't think there ever will be again. She's overheard the administration talking about budget cuts on more than one occasion, and the creative arts just aren't as important as football.

She wishes she could just live on the South Side. Maybe then things would make sense.

FP pushes open the door and it creaks, swinging forward on its hinges to admit them inside. The noise almost seems like it's there to deter, as if the room itself knows they're not meant to be in it. Her steps are tentative, unsure, as she takes it in, amber light filtering in through the windows to cast shadows against unused instruments. Autumn is just beginning to filter into the air, and Alice hugs her cardigan close around herself, a chill curling through her and bringing with it an involuntary shiver.

Perhaps it isn't the weather at all - maybe it's the realization that she's breaking the rules, and that she doesn't mind doing it.

He drops his backpack to the floor with a distinct thump, and hers follows suit, pink against black in a perfect metaphor for their relationship. His steps are quiet but strong as he crosses the room, boots scuffing the old wood on his way to the piano. It's one of those with a flat top, large and smooth and dark, like an untouched lake in texture. FP hops up onto it with no trouble at all, his smile still firmly in place as he taps the space next to him.

She's come this far, she supposes.

It seems odd to Alice that she's more out of shape than her companion, but only for a moment as she remembers the exercise he must get running around with the Serpents. Oddly enough, the term that used to bring a bitter taste to her tongue now rolls off it easily. She doesn't mind the idea of FP being in a gang, not anymore… in fact, she kind of likes it, although it's not something she will admit to anyone in her life.

They sit together, side-by-side on the edge of the piano, staring at the wall in soft silence. The moment is comfortable, even if they both know how fleeting it is, framed in fragile glass that could splinter into pieces at any moment. The sun is already getting low, and the shadows grow long in front of their eyes, but still neither speaks.

In an abnormal stroke of affection, FP takes her hand. Her smooth palm fits perfectly in his calloused one, his thumb stroking the back of her hand like they've done it thousands of times before. The quiet lingers, full and deep, and warmth spreads through Alice, starting in her fingertips where they lace with his. Her breath draws sharply and he pretends not to notice when she turns her head to look at him, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on a point in the distance she can't see.

"FP," she whispers, biting her lip, and he meets her eyes then, arching an eyebrow in something close to challenge. Her eyes are wide, a high blush to her skin, all from the simple decision of holding his hand.

But it's not just that.

It's the _way_ he did it. He's touching her with such fondness, like he knows she bruises easily even in her hands, and a surety, confidence, that she doesn't know how to quantify. It speaks of something bigger, more dramatic, and maybe it's just her but this is affecting her more deeply than it ever has with her other boyfriends.

Realizing what she's just thought, Alice gives a gentle gasp, wondering when exactly she'd begun to classify FP Jones -her _best friend_ , FP Jones- in that context.

Maybe she always had, from the very first time he'd tossed rocks at her window.

Her eyes search his face, and in his deep brown orbs she finds only a light amusement. No judgement, no condescension - just the hint of humor he always carries with him, wherever he goes.

And then, before she has time to think about it, cheer captain Alice Smith wraps her arms around just the kind of boy her mother always said to avoid and kisses him hard.

Her eyes flutter closed on a sigh, a rush of relief flooding her when she feels him begin to respond, his fingers coming up to thread delicately into her hair. Everything about it is whole and pure, a caring and gentleness present that she'd never have expected from him, and it leaves Alice breathless like nothing ever has.

It doesn't come as that much of a surprise that this too is different with him. Better. They work together, fit together, in so many ways, and with no need for showing off. It seems, in the moment like this, that there could have been no other choice for Alice. No-one else would have understood her like he does now, because no-one else gets how hard it is.

She cups his cheek, the slight stubble he's growing grazing her skin, and she smiles into the last moments of intimacy with no regret. It feels right somehow, like Hal never has, and like he never will. He's not like her - he doesn't know her.

He doesn't know about the jacket, tucked ever so carefully away in the back of her closet, and she hopes he never will.

"Alice-" FP starts, mumbling against her lips, but she stops him with another, quicker kiss as she sits back on her hands. Her hair is wild, eyes bright, but she doesn't care.

"Shut up," she murmurs, placing two fingers to his mouth and giving a soft grin. There don't need to be words, not right now. She doesn't want them, doesn't need them, and she knows he'll understand.

An answering smile blooms beneath her touch, accompanied by a small nod, because of course he understands. He's feeling the same things she is - giddy happiness, and a sense of overwhelming rightness that brings both of them perfect calm. It will be short-lived, but for now it's to be cherished, for they aren't the sort to let life pass them by.

She rests her head against his shoulder and they face the wall again, staring at nothing until the end bell rings.


End file.
